Wandering Blind
by Kang Xiu
Summary: Concerning alcoholic!Prouvaire, Enjolras, some poetry, misunderstanding, metaphor, and potential of slash. Third chapter up; con crit very much appreciated. Completed.
1. You'll Only Be Wandering Blind

Wandering Blind  
  
[[[Last night I walked about the  
Luxembourg  
In my shirtsleeves...  
The sky was red as blood  
  
(No, no more clichés.)  
  
The sky, truly, was  
Red  
But red of something else  
Winterberries?  
The embers in the fire as it begins to die  
Rubies shot through with sunlight  
  
(Now my clichés are my own.)  
  
The trees were bare, and thrust into the air  
Intricate networks of  
Wood, black against the sky  
They were  
Sinister and spoke of fear...  
  
(No! Another cliché. I don't want any more.)  
  
They looked as trails of tar  
Melted down  
Trickling a path through the blood --  
The rubies --  
The embers...]]]  
  
"Prouvaire, what is this?"  
  
"I don't know... It's something..."  
  
[[[I thought for a moment  
That I saw stars  
A moon  
Slashing ivory light through the sky  
But I looked again  
And only red remained.  
  
(How can I say this correctly?)  
  
Perhaps I dreamed the light, then  
And yet...  
Stars are so real, although they cannot be touched........]]]  
  
"So you did write it?"  
  
"I did..."  
  
"I see."  
  
"How can you be that calm? Aren't you going to ask how it came to be on your desk?! Won't you lecture me?! Do I ever do anything worthwhile, save scribble away my dreams on scraps of paper? They only blow into the streets. Gamins pick them up, and cannot read them, and burn them. --Why don't you reprimand me?! Reprimand me!"  
  
[[[There was another man there,  
In the silent, red-stained garden  
Watching me with silent eyes  
Smiling at me a  
Bitter  
Cynical  
Angry  
Silent  
Smile  
  
(Now he sounds like Grantaire. But he wasn't!)  
  
I wanted to turn away, perhaps  
To close my eyes  
But didn't dare.  
He whispered words to me  
Soft, unbearable  
If I wrote them,  
Would they break? Surely. They were words  
Not meant for ink  
Meant only for incarnadine skies  
And blood-soaked nights  
I would whisper them back to myself  
And I could  
Ponder the meanings  
But I knew the meanings then, and though  
I have forgotten  
I need not revive them  
They were meant for that night only  
  
(It's getting better. Oh, God, if someone interrupted me now, I'd lose this...)  
  
There is an agony in joy...]]]  
  
"No. I won't. There's no cause to."  
  
"You ought to be angry at me for strewing your desk with my worthless thoughts. For daring to place my parchments among yours."  
  
"I am not angry. But you're drunk again, Jehan. Go home."  
  
"I don't want to leave this candlelight..."  
  
[[[I abandon my Muse sometimes  
I write in the mornings, watching the sunsets  
They cast red light over the clouds  
But none  
As that night  
Unmatchable  
Was I afraid then? No,  
But safe.  
  
(Damn this whole verse! It's all too real! It doesn't belong here! ..I need a drink.)  
  
The man I saw in the gardens  
His face young  
His hair as white  
As any agèd, noble man  
Was he an angel?  
Or are the only true angels the ones  
Pure, lovely  
Robed in white  
Crowned in gold  
Embracing harps unto themselves  
Fingers stroking melody from silver strings  
Chords that echo and wallow in beauty?  
Perhaps he was an angel...  
God knows what they really are  
  
(This is no good. I've no inspiration. This is terrible.)  
  
Not all angels must have wings...]]]  
  
"Prouvaire, you *will* go home."  
  
"Oh, don't look at me like that! I'll go! Please don't look at me like that."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Au revoir."  
  
"...Au revoir..."  
  
[[[(It didn't even rhyme. What was I thinking?)  
  
(Does he know I keep every poem that he puts upon my desk? If he did... --No. And he mustn't ever know. Disapproval. Always, it must be disapproval. Of everyone...)  
  
(I'll try again tomorrow.)  
  
("Not all angels have wings...")]]] 


	2. All the Wolves All the Lies

All the Lies...  
  
Darnel wrapped his fingers around Jehan's, carefully drawing them to exactly the correct spot, pressing them into the pale skin. Both men had a bottle before them, though Jehan was clearly drunker than his companion.  
  
"Here. Put them here."  
  
As soon as he had discovered what Darnel had led him to, the poet sat in petrified stillness, his three fingers pressed to his wrist on the right of the vein. Darnel touched his shoulder, splaying against soft linen.  
  
"It's only a heartbeat. A chant of blood. You'll hear it often, I trust. You needn't treat it like a thing of glass. Haven't you ever done this before? Or felt it in anything?"  
  
Jehan had, in his side, when he sat the wrong way in a chair. He'd felt the fluttering against his ribs. But that wasn't the same thing. Nervously, he pressed harder, feeling the smooth bone and the ever-present beat. Finally he managed, "Would a God have one, Grantaire?"  
  
Darnel eyed Apollo, sitting a table apart from them, radiant. Gold thread spilled over alabaster skin, and stone lips were pursed in concentration. He already knew which god Jehan had in mind. "In some cases."  
  
"Not now? Not that one?"  
  
"Especially not that one. He hasn't leaned how to immerse Himself in wine. He hasn't come out of the marble, so no. Not for a moment."  
  
"Oh." Jehan's voice sounded childish, not ready for the slurring that choked it. Darnel felt a twinge of anger at the uselessness of the world, and patted the poet's hair.  
  
"Tell yourself someday. It's a lie, but Prouvaire, if you're going to live like me, you've got to learn to lie to yourself. It's a very important talent. So tell yourself, someday. Someday, that God will step off Olympus and come down here and have a glass with you. Can't you picture it? His fingers around the stem of some crystal glass, cupping the bowl in His white palms, staining His white lips with dark red wine. Can you see it?"  
  
"Oh God, yes, I can see it, God..." Jehan eyes were filled with tears, and Darnel resumed the gentle patting.  
  
"Right, well. Tell yourself someday that's going to be real. And convince yourself, that's the most important part."  
  
There was a long pause, and finally Jehan whispered, "I'm convinced. Someday. He can't be marble forever."  
  
"Damn straight. Good boy. Have another drink?"  
  
A tousled head was shaken, and fingers left on a heartbeat in the arm. A smile was given, and other fingers continued their stroking.  
  
"Very well. Good anyway."  
  
Apollo sighed in consternation at their noise, and didn't look their way, marking none of the words said. The poet dried his tears, and the cynic comforted his disciple.  
  
~~~ 


	3. The False Hopes, the Goodbyes, the Rever...

The False Hopes...  
  
Jehan sat quietly in the very back of the back room in Musain. He was in a corner, shielded by the dark and by the cornerness of the corner. His arms lay flat on the table, and his cheek was pillowed against his arms. The soft, clouded eyes gazed out from a pale, thin face, and attempted to focus on some thing far out in the room. No one would have noticed him, and neither of the other two occupants did. The green bottle beside his head attracted no attention, nor did his shallow, quiet breathing.  
  
"But surely you can dance."  
  
"Perhaps. Perhaps I have no wish to."  
  
Jehan tried to smile a little, wondering what sort of poem it would make. In his mind, words quivered, pressing forward and insisting he write. The poet, disillusioned, tried to console himself with his comforting, familiar images.  
  
[[[To dance, to dream, the ever-whirl  
With toe-tips turning in a wheel  
And bare soles patt'ring smoothen'd wood  
And footprints breaking dusty seal...]]]  
  
Some such nonsense. Something he knew.  
  
"It's not so undignified, little eagle."  
  
"I'm Arnett. Call me my name, and not some epithet. Be different for me. Don't treat me like everyone else."  
  
"Arnett, then, you are. Just dance with me. It's not dangerous. I swear. You'd like it, if only you tried."  
  
"Well, show me. I haven't danced in years, not since I left my father's house."  
  
"If you've danced before, you'll remember. It's something one can't very well forget. Here, take my hands. This and that. Curl fingers, fit together like wood links, and so on."  
  
Jehan wondered, momentarily, a new wonder: why his eyes were pricking. Of course he knew. Of course he understood tears and that they dripped over sallow cheeks and that they made blurry vision blurrier. But wasn't what he watched not uncommon? Didn't he lie to himself every day, as Grantaire had taught him?  
  
In the daytime, Les Amis teased him gently, and played with him, and asked to see his poetry. Bahorel and Courfeyrac laughed at him without meaning it; Combeferre and Feuilly made a show of interest in what he wrote. This was all because everyone was kind to the poor poet, the poor timid poet. They loved him, they looked upon him as a pet, and they smiled and said, "That's our Jehan Prouvaire."  
  
And sometimes now their eyes were sorrowful, and they told each other, "Poor Jehan. Poor dear Jehan. He wasn't meant to walk down Grantaire's path. Poor little Jehan."  
  
But at night, no one saw him at all, and he hid in his corner and watched the two men who now were before him.  
  
"You startled. What's wrong?"  
  
"Your hands are soft. I didn't expect--"  
  
"You wrong me. My hands could be soft as silk. Your hands are soft, for stone. It was once to be thought you were more aptly named "Peter" than Arnett, but clearly you turn this upon its head. Your hands are soft."  
  
"Thank you..."  
  
"Terribly welcome, and don't step that way. That's wrong for this dance. You'll put us off."  
  
"You needn't tell me what to do."  
  
"Mmph. Don't look at me with such reproach, and then kiss me. It disarms me and confuses me and I wander anywhere. Just step there."  
  
"I have."  
  
"Good; step again."  
  
"What was *that*?"  
  
"A twirl. I twirled you. Have I knocked your wind, as well? You're a bit short of breath."  
  
"I'm fine, though being bent into mad positions."  
  
"Very good, sir. Turnabout, sir. Are you tired? Have you danced enough for one starry night? Claim a sprained ankle to be rid of your partner, or whisper affectedly something about needing a little air."  
  
"You're silly. Dance with me a while longer, now you've taught me again how."  
  
And Jehan told himself he didn't mind. He'd learned Grantaire's talent of lying to oneself. He'd learned it well. But Grantaire lied to him. The cause of the poet's disillusionment was in betrayal.  
  
For hadn't the cynic taught him to believe in Apollo? Hadn't they dreamed of their idol together? It was Grantaire who had given him the picture of their God drinking, and the hope of it. And it was Grantaire who lied more perfectly every day, proclaiming more dreams under the sun and beneath the moon, breaking more trust.  
  
Jehan believed that Grantaire should stay faithful to Apollo, and Grantaire was not.  
  
[[[With stardust sprinkled in their hair  
Two mortals 'round Apollo's throne  
Danced hand in hand with fingers laced  
While Artemis her moonlight shone  
  
Come break of day the one returns  
To deep and ag'd philosophy  
The other to Dionysus steals  
To drink away more lies with me  
  
To dance, to dream, the ever-whirl  
A dance for two and not for three  
And thus the third on outskirts haunts  
And gives his soul, o four, to thee]]]  
  
Jehan was not proud of such a poem. Tomorrow night, the dancers would perhaps give him better inspiration in exchange for his broken heart. 


	4. No More Curses You Can't Undo Left By Fa...

You Never Knew...  
  
Apollo sat alone at His table, carefully setting down a few scattered words on paper, making sure His face betrayed no emotion, and forcing His hands not to shake. He held His body rigidly, unmoving as the door opened and a gust of wind rushed through the cafe, causing the candle to flicker and the empty bottles on other tables to tremble. He looked up, and beheld the youngest of His followers entering, unsteadily, coat pulled close and hands knotted in the fabric.  
  
"Jehan," He murmured, allowing His voice no traces of concern, "Jehan, what are you doing here?"  
  
"I've come to watch the dance," whispered the boy, bracing himself on the back of a chair.  
  
"What on earth are you talking about?" Apollo stood, and walked over to stand before the boy.  
  
"The dancers. Well, they're not here yet. They will be. They give me poems, though not very good ones. You'll see, if you wait. They won't know you're here. They never see me."  
  
He brushed back the boy's hair sternly. "You must go home. Sleep off the wine."  
  
"No, I drank absinthe tonight."  
  
The boy turned as, suddenly, the cafe door opened again, and two figures entered. Apollo watched in mild horror as Darnel and Arnett embraced just inside it, twining fingers in each other's hair. Arnett smiled dreamily and spake the name of his love. Darnel laughed a little, and kissed his cheek.  
  
Apollo drew His young follower protectively to Himself, crossing His arms over the boy's chest as if to shield him from the evil they saw.  
  
"The dancers?" He asked.  
  
"Yes, they are. They never notice I'm here. They won't notice you either. Aren't they pretty? Just watch."  
  
Not for the King brought bound to Him would He call the scene before Himself pretty. He frowned, and released the boy, striding to the pair, who held one another's hands.  
  
"Combeferre," He addressed His lieutenant, "Combeferre. What are you doing, man?"  
  
Arnett's lips twitched in a smile, and he shook his head at Apollo. "The philosopher is learning to be a lover. But he hasn't forgotten how to be a warrior. Leave him be, Enjolras: he will come back to you."  
  
Darnel nudged his shoulder. "Come, if Apollo mislikes us, we had best do our dancing elsewhere. Have you room in your apartment?"  
  
"Not like the dance floor of the cafe, but it should do." Arnett turned back to Apollo a last time, and tilted his head apologetically. "The revolution and its ideals rule my soul, yet not my heart, Enjolras. It takes my days, yet not my nights. I'll come tomorrow, and the next day; you don't hold meetings at midnight. Bonne nuit."  
  
"My manners as well. Bonne nuit, Golden one."  
  
They left, and Apollo turned back to His little follower, who was fuzzily gazing at Him.  
  
"They've gone..."  
  
He stepped back to the boy, and rested both hands on his shoulders. They quivered a bit beneath His fingers.  
  
"Yes, they've gone. You knew?"  
  
"'Course I knew. I see many things that no one else sees. No one else sees me. They didn't. Oh, but, Lord, I believed him. I thought he meant it when he said we were to worship you together. He said you were the only thing we'd love, the two of us, the only thing we'd believe in. He promised me it would be that way." The boy buried his face in his hands. "He lied to me. He's always lying to me."  
  
"He lies to everyone. He's a waste of your company," Apollo told him, reprimanding.  
  
"But I want to believe... I want to believe someone else understands."  
  
"Understands what?"  
  
The boy looked up at Him, eyes wide. "That you're a God. That you were to be worshiped." Damnedly, Apollo could see he meant that, the silly, strange little child with his illusions.  
  
"You needn't have a fellow to worship."  
  
"I need the dreams that he gave me."  
  
"Jehan," He smiled, "Jehan. Write me a poem."  
  
The boy parted his lips in wonder, and his purple-blue eyes grew awed. "Write you a poem? Write... --Yes, Lord. I shall."  
  
"There," Apollo told him, "you are able to worship very well on your own. You are giving a gift to your god, and sacrificing a little of your poetic soul. You worship very well." And He kissed the boy's forehead to assure him of this.  
  
Owari ~ End 


End file.
